Dark New World (Book 1): Dark New World

by Henry G. Foster

  So, Peter escaped through a window, grabbed a hidden set of gear and a horse, and tore off after the scouts. He figured he was maybe fifteen minutes behind them, which was no problem at all. But then, only five minutes out, he heard the roar of airplane engines.

  And then everything changed.

  The planes flew in pretty high up, and one launched missiles that struck in the distance, back at the farm compound. Three huge explosions. In a rage he realized they had leveled the place he’d called home for the last couple of years. He doubted many had survived, except of course the scouts, most of whom were always out scouting.

  Three more missiles flew southward, and from the light of the explosions Frank reckoned they hit the stockpile. That bitch spy must have had a radio or something, some way of letting the invaders know.

  Then the other two planes sprayed some kind of mist over fields that were full of crops ready for harvest. He had no idea what the spray was, but figured it had to be Round Up, or something similar.

  He decided to keep going, to at least get some good old fashioned revenge by scalping their spy. He caught up to the other scouts in minutes, because they had stopped to argue. Go back, keep going, they didn’t know what to do. Fortunately, Peter outranked ‘em all and gave them some sense. They didn’t argue too much about his order to keep going.

  They spent the night on that hill, out of the fields and eating cold rations, but the sun came up and it was time to move on. The fields all around, once full of crops, were now a sick, dark brown, which only added to the cold rage burning in his gut.

  No matter what happened to him or his scouts, that bitch was gonna pay, he promised himself as they mounted up. His people were probably mostly dead and the farms in ruins, but no matter what, he was going to get justice on that spy. It might be the last thing he did in this world, but he refused to let so many of his people die in vain. Never in vain...

  - 23 -

  1200 HOURS - ZERO DAY +5

  GRANDMA MANDY LAUGHED with joy as Aidan came down from the attic with a mid-sized cardboard box, inside of which were a dozen MREs. “How did you find that, Aidan?”

  The boy smiled, and preened melodramatically. “I found ‘em in some of mom’s boxes,” he declared. Brianna was so happy to see the food that she didn’t even make fun of her younger brother’s showing off.

  Mandy nodded. “She must have left them by accident, bless her soul. If we stretch these out, it’s another four days of food,” she said still smiling broadly.

  A scream outside interrupted their moment of joy. “Stay here, kids,” Mandy said.

  She crept toward the window facing the street, to which they’d taped newspaper to block the view from outside. One little flap could be raised from inside, to see out, and Mandy placed her eye to this after lifting the bit of paper.

  In the street she saw a man with a backpack. Despite a severe limp and blood on his leg, he was doing his best to run. He turned to keep track of whoever was chasing him, and Mandy saw that the man with the backpack was her neighbor, the one who’d thrown his tire iron through his own car window on the first day without power.

  Seconds later two other men ran into view and tackled him together. There was a brief struggle, then one of the other men stood up from the tangle with a bloody knife in his hand. Mandy’s neighbor stopped moving. The other attacker stood and then roughly yanked the backpack off the fallen man. He and his knife-wielding partner walked away with grim faces, and then were out of view. They left her neighbor dead in the street.

  Mandy slowly put the flap of paper back in place, drew a deep breath, and stood. When she turned to face the kids, she wore a smile for their benefit, but happiness was the farthest from her mind.

  - 24 -

  1400 HOURS - ZERO DAY +5

  MANDY LOOKED WITH approval at her grandkids and the assortment of things they’d gathered for their exodus. They had a tent, barely large enough to hold all three of them; four full blankets folded, rolled, and bound with thin rope; two backpacks (the kids’); and a duffel bag. In the bags were knives, MREs, water bottles, a fork for each, and a little hatchet. Mandy thought three days outside should be enough for Cassy to arrive, if she lived, which Mandy forced herself to believe was the case. They had enough food and water for about that much time. She didn’t want to think about what they’d do after that.

  Mandy felt that Cassy would have thought of a dozen more things they’d need, but by God’s grace she had done her best. She didn’t know all the things Cassy knew, and remembered with regret teasing her daughter for spending time and money on “that prepper stuff”. Cassy had once mentioned “the five Cs of 72-hours”, but God bless it, she couldn’t remember what they were. Cover, cutting, cordage... What were the last two? She gave up trying to remember, and let out a long sigh of frustration.

  Mandy set a note on the mantle, addressed to Cassy, which explained where they were going. She ended it by writing, “Find us at the Fairy Stones,” which was a reference to Cassy’s childhood favorite spot to camp, about an hour’s walk from the house.

  Aidan, looking over the collection of gear, chimed in. “Grandma, what if we have to boil water? Mom says to boil water or you get beaver farts. I laughed, but she said you don’t laugh if you get Gondoria.”

  “Giardia, dear. And no, you don’t.” Which reminded her of another of the five Cs, Containers. “Be a dear and go get Grandma’s small cook pot, sweetie.”

  Brianna poked Aidan in the shoulder. “And how are we gonna boil water without a fire, butthead? Do you know how to start a fire?”

  Mandy smiled. “Be nice, Bri. I have a couple BICs in my pocket, we’ll be fine.”

  She was oddly pleased that she had thought of the fifth C, combustion, on her own. Cassy would have done it faster and better, but Mandy felt reassured to know they had Cassy’s “five Cs” covered. Wisdom from the mouths of babes... Truly the Lord had blessed her.

  Mandy gathered the kids after Aidan returned with the pot, and made them hold hands for a prayer. Brianna groaned playfully, and Mandy favored the child with a smile before beginning.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, her grandkids were outside with backpacks on. Mandy had her duffel over one shoulder and the blankets on her back, using cordage as a makeshift backpack rig. She was terribly sad to be leaving the house, but it just wasn’t safe anymore, if it ever really had been. They hadn’t seen any people outside in an hour or two, but she still planned to go away from the direction the murderous men had taken.

  “Okay, who’s ready to go camping?” The kids looked sad, she thought, but then again, she too was sad at leaving. “Okay kids, let’s go. Follow Grandma.”

  They got only half a block away when the buzzing began. Aidan was the first to notice it. “Grandma, what’s that noise?”

  Mandy tilted her head and listened carefully, until her older ears caught the sound. “It’s an airplane...”

  “It’s three of ‘em, Grandma, look,” Brianna yelped, and pointed to the east.

  Mandy looked and saw three dots over the horizon, growing larger. They were in formation. “Military planes.”

  Then one of the planes veered off and took position higher and to the relative left of the formation. Seconds later she saw why when huge fireballs rose into the sky, and then they were hit by the noise of the explosions. Whump, whump, whump.

  Oh God, thought Mandy, they’re bombing the city. Fear washed over her like a wave. These were not American fighters. “Lord be merciful! Kids, run back to the house. Run, dammit!”

  * * *

  Frank and his family were moving single-file down an alley on the eastern outskirts of Chesterbrook when they heard the jet engines. Damn, and more damn! “Take cover,” Frank said perhaps louder than he intended, and turned to make sure they were doing so.

  “Inbound,” exclaimed Michael, and he joined Frank in looking for cover.

  Nearby was a dry culvert and Michael pointed it out to Frank, who nodded and herde
d the families towards it. “Move it, move it,” he shouted, and they did. The family ran, Jed and Michael scooping up the two younger, slower children. The first to arrive half-dove into the large concrete opening.

  Then he saw Jaz trip and fall while coming down the small earth embankment toward the culvert opening, but she got up immediately. She was okay, he saw, so he just kept running. When he reached the opening, Frank stood by the entrance until everyone else was in. He was the last to enter.

  Seconds later, the ground shook and the dark interior of the culvert lit up like daytime as bombs exploded all around the surrounding neighborhood.

  * * *

  Ethan sat in his bunker, waiting. He set up a makeshift antenna, running cable high into a tree then running it to a directional radio relay box set up well away from his property. By the time he returned to the bunker, he was sweaty and out of breath. Some minutes later, he set up the program to transmit the most recent decoding of the text file he’d received from the “20s”, which now broadcast in a repeating loop.

  His contact had said the enemy response would take up to half an hour, but boy were they wrong. More wrong than the time he’d brought only twenty clan-mates to raid an enemy stronghold online, and they’d all been slaughtered when some “allies” turned out to be a sub-clan of the people they were raiding. Sadly, he’d probably never get to play that game again.

  In any event, it had taken only 16 minutes for the first bombs to fall. He suspected they’d bomb the shit out of Chesterbrook until the transmission stopped, which could take quite a while. He hoped most of the people in town were gone already, but he would deal with the guilt of that when the invaders were pushed off American soil. This was an invasion, and he told himself there was no way to fight back without endangering innocent people. At least they would die in the fight for freedom, rather than by starvation and looting. Or so he tried to convince himself, without much luck.

  * * *

  When the first wave of explosions subsided, Frank turned to his people. “We have to get out of here. We’re on the outskirts of town, still, so we have to go further. Is everyone okay? Anyone hurt?”

  Jaz, sitting on the floor of the culvert, looked up. Her voice sounded strained when she said, “I’m not okay, Frank. I think I, like, Jango’d my ankle when I fell.”

  “It looks sprained,” Michael said, helpfully translating Jaz’s words into English.

  “Michael, do what you can to splint it. We move in five minutes. Michael and Jed, you’ll help support her when we move out. Amber and Tiffany, you take the flanks and keep your eyes open. Mary, stay with the kids and keep ‘em moving. I’ll help with that, but I’m going to be distracted keeping track of everyone else.”

  All around him, the others nodded. Frank yet again cursed at himself for taking the lead. This wasn’t the role he’d have chosen, but someone had to do it and Michael didn’t have the temperament for it. Plus he was more useful up front, as their only trained scout. Dammit.

  * * *

  Mandy peered out through the lifted little flap of paper over the window, and fought back tears. Her house, tucked away on a back lot, was undamaged, but two blocks away, the town was burning in the aftermath of huge explosions. No one could have survived those bombs, she decided, and muttered a prayer for the dead, even though the preacher said the dead were already winging their way to paradise or the lake of fire. Still, praying comforted her and made her feel a bit less helpless. There was power in the Blood, she mused, and a prayer couldn’t hurt.

  Those planes weren’t done with the town, she decided. If they were bombing civilians, well, there was a lot of town left to blow up, including her house. Sooner or later the enemy jets would come back for her house too. They had to get out.

  “Get ready, kids. We have to run before those planes come back.” She shifted the little .38 revolver in her pocket and again prayed, asking God to protect them.

  And then they were out the door. She glanced left and saw a trickle of people fleeing in the direction of the place she had intended to camp. She’d seen what people were doing to each other on the street, and muttered quick thanks that she hadn’t taken the kids there earlier. They would have been in the path of those desperate refugees.

  She led them in the opposite direction, to the east skirting the burning areas, and could only hope it was the right choice.

  * * *

  Ethan sat with his elbows on the desk, holding his head in his hands. The last plane had unloaded its bombs a minute ago, but his radio was still broadcasting. The enemy would be back and would keep pounding the poor town until they took out his antenna. They probably had soldiers en route as well.

  One of his monitors blinked on. He had cameras set up around his property, which were safely in the bunker at the time of the EMP. He set them up afterward, working at night to avoid being seen. They were his only early warning system.

  On the screen he saw two men and a woman enter his house, and the men were half-carrying the girl. She wore a splint on her left foot. Well, they were on their own, he decided sadly. But then things changed, and quickly: four children, three more women, and another man entered the house. They crouched down against a wall, avoiding exposing themselves in the window. Ethan could see that one of the men helping the limping girl had blood half-covering his face. Probably a scalp wound, he decided.

  He was arguing with himself on whether or not to go up to help them—there were children there, for God’s sake—when the decision was made for him. Another monitor lit up, and he saw four uniformed soldiers, not American, stalking toward his house with rifles at the ready.

  Odin’s Beard, he cursed using his favorite in-game swear word. There was no way he could let the enemy find those people in his house. They’d label the place for later investigation, and would definitely find the hidden entrance to his bunker. Shit.

  Ethan grabbed his M4 from the desk and strode purposefully towards the hatch that led to the tunnel into his house.

  * * *

  Jaz grimaced, and was grateful for the support Jed provided. She spared a moment to look at his head, which was still bleeding. Jed had jumped and tackled her to the ground when the soldiers came at them while they crossed the street headed to this somewhat isolated house, and as a result he’d been shot instead of her. Grazed, she amended, after examining Jed’s head.

  “Get ready,” Michael said while peering out the window. He slid back to the floor and checked his rifle. “Weapons check, everyone.”

  Jaz didn’t know how to do that, but Michael wasn’t really paying attention anyway. Must be one of his ‘Nam flashbacks, she thought. In his head he must be in Crapghanistan or something. At least he knew what he was doing.

  “Find a window and prepare to engage,” Michael said. He wasn’t yelling, but Jaz suspected she could hear that steely, calm voice clearly even in the middle of a gunfight.

  Jaz scooted her butt over so she had better access to the window, and made room for Jed as well. She was having trouble thinking straight, and couldn’t see right, only a dot like at the end of a tunnel. Everything else was shadows. Good thing Michael was doing his voice-carry-thing or she’d never hear him over her heart pounding in her ears.

  Then Michael was counting to... three? Every other thought was gone. In three seconds, she’d live or die. Soldiers would live or die. The kids... She didn’t want to think about that.

  “Three!”

  * * *

  Ethan ran the tunnel in great strides. At the end, it rose vertically to two hatches within the house above, one on the bottom floor and one on the upper floor. He decided popping up in the middle of a big group of armed and scared parents was not ideal, so he continued up to the second floor. At the top he slid a bookshelf aside, revealing the upstairs bedroom to which the bookshelf faced. The room was empty.

  He crawled to the window and slid it open slowly, then rose to a kneeling position that let him see through the window without sticking his barrel out. No sense
turning the window frame into a visible target box before he was ready.

  From downstairs he heard a staccato of gunfire, and outside, one of the four soldiers flopped over backwards. The other three dropped prone and returned fire, and the fight was on. The enemy soldiers were spread out, maybe thirty feet between each of them, and they laid on the fire. There was a cry of pain downstairs, and Ethan hoped it wasn’t one of the kids. He took careful aim through his “scout” scope, mounted far forward on the rifle’s upper receiver, and squeezed the trigger. Pop, pop said his rifle, and his target answered by catching a round to both the chest and face then flopping forward.

  Hurray for two-round bursts...

  * * *

  Frank saw Michael move to where Jed sat against the wall. Jed held his arm, and blood seeped down his sleeve and dripped onto the floor. Then Frank had no more time to watch, as bullets from the soldiers again peppered the house. Frank returned fire, ducked, returned fire again, and spared a thought for the shots that had come from upstairs. Apparently, someone else was up there shooting at the oncoming soldiers, and he was glad for the help, but worried what would happen if they all survived this mess. Was the other gunman going to try to shoot them, too, for trespassing? Or would Frank find a new ally? Well, they’d just have to figure that out later. If they had a later.

  * * *